‘Yeah. You sound like you’re half asleep. It’s only half nine.’
‘Hmm, fell asleep in front of the fire.’
‘Well listen. I have a plan to get rid of Trevelyar and you need to be very brave because it’s only you as can do it, maid.’
Lavender’s suddenly wide awake. Brave? She doesn’t like the sound of this. ‘I don’t want to do anything else, Gran. Let’s just see if what I did today has any effect.’
‘Oh, it will have. He’ll be rattled all right. But we need more. He needs to be tipped right over the edge.’
‘But what else do you want to do? That was pretty bad what I did to his car, and you did the badger thing. Let’s leave it for now and–’
‘We will not leave it for now. We need to keep up the pressure. Now just be quiet for a few minutes and I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, okay?’
Lavender sighs. When Gran’s in this mood there’s no arguing with her. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’
Chapter 8
Thank God the weekend is on the horizon. Matt’s had a shit few days. He’s had to walk to school through the driving rain and wind blowing a hooley, because it’s taking forever to get the tyres done on his car. Something about ordering the right ones – Matt’s no clue about cars; he sees them as a necessity to get from A to B. Then the heating system at the cottage’s playing up, and to top it all, he thinks he’s getting a cold. Matt shuts an exercise book, sets his marking pen down and looks at his watch. It’s four o’clock. Can he sneak out of school early? It is Friday, after all, and he’s worked late every night since he started the job.
He’s just about to step out from his classroom into the corridor, when he hears Jessica’s voice booming at some unfortunate cleaner. She’s the last person he wants to run into, so he ducks back inside and waits for her to pass. Her tapping heels stop outside his door and he pictures her looking in through the glass partition. Matt’s hiding in the recess behind the door and heaves a sigh of relief when the heels tap-tap on down the corridor. Outside he finds it’s stopped raining and hurries through the playground, a bundle of exercise books under his arm, planning a relaxing bath and an evening doing nothing – unless the heating is up the spout, then he’ll go to the pub.
Matt’s beginning to feel like a regular in the Driftwood Spars. He’s got to know the barman well enough for a pint of Doom Bar to be set in front of him without having to ask, and he’s on nodding terms with one or two of the other customers. The best thing about this evening though, is the cosy atmosphere as he sits on a comfy chair warming his toes by the fire. His stomach is full of a wonderful dinner and he’s loath to venture back out to his cold little cottage. If they don’t fix the heating over the weekend, he’s going to threaten to leave without paying the rent and find more comfortable accommodation.
Yawning, Matt stretches his arms above his head and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Lavender Nancarrow’s breezed through the door, pulling the cool salt air behind her like a train. She looks stunning as usual. Matt closes his mouth and watches as she orders a drink. A deep blue velvet dress under a tasselled multi-coloured shawl would look stupid on anyone else. But on her it’s perfect. There’s a jewelled comb in the back of her hair, which she’s piled up in soft curls on top of her head, and though she’s wearing make-up, it’s subtle, understated. A few men are watching her too and Matt feels strangely protective. If she’s wary of men, she might feel under threat. Should he go up and talk to her? He’s not sure. They didn’t have such a great meeting the other day, and it might freak her out.
As he’s deliberating, she pays for her drink and turns towards the comfy seating and the fire. She sees him and smiles, comes over and stands opposite. ‘Matt, isn’t it? Is it okay if I sit here, or are you with someone?’
Matt’s so surprised she’s come over, he takes a few seconds to respond. ‘Er, no, please take a seat. Great to see you again, Lavender.’ He gives her what he hopes is a winning smile, not a rictus grin.
Then a guy saunters over. He’s tall, with dark spiky hair, good-looking – and knows it. He leans in to Lavender. ‘Hey, beautiful. How’s tricks? Not seen you for a few weeks.’
Lavender shrugs. ‘Okay, Jamie. How’s your gran?’ She looks about as interested in him as she would be in having dental work without anaesthetic.
‘Annie’s well. She met up with Morvoren the other day, had a nice little chat. Just tell your gran I totally understand.’ He looks Matt up and down as if he’s scum and then back to Lavender. ‘Speak soon. And I’m just over there if you need me.’ Jamie indicates the bar with his head and walks away.
Lavender rolls her eyes at Matt, takes a sip of her wine and sets the glass between them on the table. ‘No idea what planet Jamie’s on sometimes.’ She smiles and takes another sip of wine. ‘I must apologise for my rudeness the other day. You must have thought I was nuts just rushing off like that.’
‘I have that effect on women.’ Matt smiles again and hopes the line’s not too cheesy.
She laughs. ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ She slips off her shawl, showing that the dress is sleeveless and that she has a delicate tattoo – sprigs of lavender winding round and down her left arm. Then she tips her head to one side, gives him a sheepish grin. ‘My gran’s to blame for my sharp exit.’
‘Right?’ Matt wonders whether to act totally dumb or come clean. Lavender’s honest wide eyes prompt him. ‘Yes. Morvoren Penhallow doesn’t like me, I must admit. She wants me out of the village, me being a Trevelyar. God only knows what we’ve supposed to have done though.’ He spreads his hands, sits back and watches Lavender’s face.
Lavender mirrors his pose. ‘Yes, I’m afraid she and your gran had a run-in back in the day.’ A mischievous smile lights up her face. ‘I think they fought over your granddad.’
‘My granddad?’ The thought of anyone fighting over old Terry is preposterous to him. It’s hard to picture him a young man.
‘Yeah. Apparently, your gran pinched him from mine.’
Matt laughs. ‘I had no idea.’ Then he remembers the damage to his car, the badger, and stops laughing. ‘So you’re telling me that your gran wants me out because of an old squabble over a man? She was pretty vile to me in this pub not so long back.’
Lavender sighs. ‘The first cut is the deepest, don’t they say?’
‘Even so. To harbour a grudge for what? Fifty-odd years?’
A shrug. ‘Yes, but there we are. And more importantly, there’s also some old feud between the Penhallows and the Trevelyars going back centuries.’
‘What old feud?’
‘I’m not sure of all the details. Anyway, Gran told me to avoid you if I ever met you because of your relatives and the fact that you were taking up a job in our school, which could have been given to a Cornishman.’
Matt’s temper is rising, and he takes a swallow of beer. Why is Lavender sitting with him if that’s the case? ‘You think this too?’
‘Not so much as her... but my gran does have a big influence on our wider family.’ There’s an uncomfortable silence while Matt wonders where to go next. Then she says, ‘But having thought about it, I think she’s mistaken where you’re concerned. You have a kind face.’
That’s something, he supposes. ‘Thanks. But I can’t get past the fact that your gran would damage my car and warn me off with a badger head, all because of some old feud and the fact that my gran nicked her bloke.’
Lavender’s mouth fell open. ‘Damage to your car and a badger? What do you mean?’
Matt tells her.
‘That’s ridiculous. My gran’s nearly eighty. I think she’d have a bit of trouble smashing headlights and slashing tyres.’ She laughs, but Matt detects no humour in it.
Matt notices a plaster on Lavender’s finger and hates where his thoughts go next. ‘She could have had help.’
Lavender narrows her eyes. ‘My gran might be a lot of things, but she wouldn’t stoop to those levels. Nor would she get anyon
e else to.’ Her voice is cold, harsh. Then she grabs her shawl, wraps it round her and stands.
Shit. He doesn’t want her to leave. Why did he say that? ‘Hey, sorry. I’m just shaken by what’s been going on lately. Please sit down and have your drink.’
There’s hesitation in her eyes, but then she sighs and sits back down. ‘Okay. But only until my friend gets here.’ She looks at her watch and to the door.
‘What time is she supposed to be here?’
‘Ten minutes ago. Kelly’s not a great timekeeper. Mind you, she’s married now, got a little one. I expect she’s fallen asleep.’
Matt knows the answer but asks, ‘You’re not married, or with anyone?’
‘No, not yet. My gran thinks I’m in danger of being on the shelf. I’m only bloody twenty-five.’ Lavender rolls her eyes.
‘I’ve got five years on you.’
A smile. ‘You really are on the shelf then, unless there’s a Mrs Trevelyar?’
Matt’s heart twinges. ‘Not any more. She died.’
‘Oh no! So sorry. Hope I didn’t upset you.’
Matt shakes his head and musters a smile. ‘No, it’s fine. People don’t expect me to be a widower at my age. It still hurts but…’ He feels a lump in his throat, so drowns it with beer and changes the subject. ‘After you’d gone the other day I looked in the window of your shop. You’re a stunning artist!’
A pink hue floods Lavender’s cheeks. Obviously self-conscious, she briefly covers her blush with her hands. ‘Oh, thanks, that’s nice of you. The business is doing quite well. We had quite a few tourists this year and they bought loads of my paintings.’
‘Excellent. What are you working on now?’
‘Another seascape. They sell best, and I adore the sea. I live in a cottage right next to it. No matter what the weather, I have a beautiful ever-changing seascape right outside my window.’ She spreads her hands to illustrate.
Matt tries not to stare at the webbing between her index fingers and thumbs. How unusual. Mostly he tries not to stare at her eyes, her mouth. She’s even more beautiful now she’s enthusing about her work. Captivating. ‘It’s obvious you’re inspired by where you live. I adore the ocean too. We came to Cornwall lots when I was a kid. My grandparents missed it so much – my gran especially. Living here now… it feels like I’ve come home to my roots. I belong here, know what I mean?’
‘Hmm.’ Lavender looks away, stony-faced, pulls her mobile out of her bag. Matt wonders what he’s said to upset her. ‘Oh, Kelly’s not coming. I got a missed call and a text. The baby’s unwell.’ She shoves the phone away and drains her glass.
‘That’s a shame. Can I get you another drink?’
‘No thanks. Must be off.’
‘You okay?’
She avoids his gaze and stands. ‘Yeah, fine.’
Damn it. She’ll be out and away before he can do anything. He blurts, ‘Will you consider coming out for a bite to eat and a drink one evening, Lavender?’ Bite to eat – he sounds like bloody Jessica! She looks at him and away. No chance of that then.
‘Not sure, Matt. My gran would be livid for a start.’
‘Ask your gran. The more the merrier – she might realise I’m not the devil’s spawn if she gets to know me.’ God, don’t let her say yes to that bit.
Lavender laughs. ‘I can’t see that happening. But why don’t I think about it and give you a ring?’
As he puts his number into her phone, Matt tries to stop an ear-to-ear smile breaking out. Wow. He never thought he’d get so far with her after what she’d said. ‘Great. Give me a ring in a few days, yeah?’
A quick nod and half-smile. ‘Okay. See you, Matt.’
Matt watches her leave, heads turning in her wake. They have no chance, and he has very little. But at least there’s a glimmer of hope. Lavender Nancarrow is certainly a woman he’d love to know better. He just prays that Morvoren Penhallow doesn’t stick her evil nose in and kill the glimmer of hope dead in the water.
Chapter 9
August 1956
Morvoren can’t decide whether she likes Elowen more than she’s jealous of her. Elowen makes her laugh; she’s funny and so nice too. A great friend. Jealousy is a very ugly thing, her mother says. And it is. Morvoren tries so hard to push it away, but every time she sees her blue-eyed friend toss her glossy blonde curls and flash that movie-star smile, she wants to slap her, push her over in the mud and hack her hair off with her dad’s sheep shears. Elowen is only fifteen, for God’s sake, a kid really in age – but her curves would give Marilyn Monroe a run for her money. Morvoren, two years older, has a figure like a boy and nondescript gravy-coloured hair. No matter what she does with make-up she looks like a pantomime clown, so she doesn’t bother mostly. Her mother doesn’t approve of ‘war paint’ anyway.
Insects hum in the meadow grass and a cow moos in the pastureland down the valley. Beyond that, the ocean’s cradled in the arms of the hills like a precious sapphire and Morvoren’s heart swells with love for Cornwall. Setting down her basket in the grass, she sits down to wait for Elowen. How lucky she was to be born here, because there’s no finer place. She can’t understand those who want to venture elsewhere. Towns scare her. All that bustle and car fumes – why anyone would want to make a home there is beyond her.
The old ways are best. Natural. Nature has so much to offer those in the know, and she’s learned that from Mother and Grandmother. They worry that the old ways will die out, because the youngsters of today aren’t interested. Their heads are too full of Elvis and rock and roll. But they shouldn’t worry, because Morvoren’s interested, and so is Elowen.
That’s how they were drawn together. One day Morvoren was walking the meadows and woods, just like today, with her basket. She was picking herbs, flowers and berries for potions and medicines when in the distance she’d seen Elowen doing the same. Even though they’d not had much to do with each other in school as they were different ages, they’d got talking and had been fast friends ever since. There was even a bit of unspoken rivalry between them over who knew most about herbs and flowers.
Morvoren thinks about who will receive the potion she’ll make with today’s offerings and feels her face flame. She’s made love potions for others, but never for herself. And if her mother knew which man she meant to give it to, she’d be banished from the house.
Elowen appears at the bottom of the field and runs up to meet Morvoren. She moves so gracefully, like a young doe. The sun’s glistening on her curls, her cheeks are rosy, lips pink and full, like her figure. Jealousy uncoils in Morvoren’s belly, opens its jaws, but she sends a bolt of good thoughts down to quiet it and stands to greet her friend. ‘Hello, thought you weren’t coming!’
Elowen takes a moment to catch her breath. ‘I know. I stopped to pick a few leaves on the way, but my mum made me late by getting me to churn the butter and then clean the chickens out! I need to get another job before I turn into a farmer.’
Morvoren frowns. ‘Nothing wrong with farming. It’s what I do. What my family have done for generations.’
‘Yeah, mine too.’ Elowen shoves an errant blonde curl from her eyes. ‘And it’s great that you love it. But I want something more from life. A bit more interesting, you know?’
‘Well, working in the interesting chip shop didn’t suit, did it?’ Morvoren sighs.
Elowen wrinkles her nose. ‘No. I stank of fish and chips – couldn’t stand it!’
‘Then what’s next?’
‘I want to try hairdressing. There’s a job going in Perranporth, but I’ve heard that Gilly’s going for it and she’s had experience.’
‘That’s no way to get ahead, is it? You have to think you’re just as good as the next maid. Better, even!’ Morvoren laughs and walks on.
Elowen catches up. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’ll get that job if it bloody kills me.’ Then she looks in Morvoren’s basket. ‘Oooh, who’s the love potion for?’
Bloody hell, this girl’s good. Morvoren looks
in Elowen’s basket. ‘Who’s got the cold?’
‘I asked first.’ Elowen runs ahead on the narrow path through the woods, stops Morvoren passing. ‘Is it for Helen? She’s in love with Barry, but he’s not interested.’
‘Not telling. And anyway, it might not be a love potion.’
‘It is. There’s rosemary, lavender, a few rose petals, primrose, wild fennel, g–’
‘Some of which can also be used for sleeping potions.’
‘Where’s the valerian or camomile? Can’t make sleeping potions without those.’ Elowen raises a delicate eyebrow.
Morvoren snorts and pushes past. Heat races up her neck and she doesn’t want Elowen to see, or she’ll put two and two together. ‘Come on, it will be teatime soon and we’ve not got much.’
‘It’s for you, isn’t it? I can tell!’ Elowen yells behind her.
Morvoren stops so quick her friend bumps into her back. She turns to face her and hisses, ‘What if it is? Not a crime, is it?’
‘No. But I want to know who the boy is.’ Elowen’s eyes are alight with excitement, thirsty for secrets.
‘Well, you can want,’ Morvoren snaps.
‘You have to tell me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m your best friend.’ Elowen does a winning smile.
‘Who says?’ Morvoren tries to stop her lips copying Elowen’s.
‘Me.’
Elowen looks so mischievous that Morvoren’s smile breaks through and she turns back to the path, crushing the wild garlic underfoot, the oil pungent in the air. Over her shoulder, she says, ‘Okay, yes, it’s for me.’ Her friend shrieks with excitement so she hurries on, ‘But I’m not telling you the name of the boy, because if I do, the potion won’t work.’
‘Is it Graham? I bet it is.’
Morvoren says nothing, just shakes her head.
‘Or Peter? He’s lovely. Looks a bit like Dean Martin.’
The Feud Page 5